Print

Please login or register.
1 Hour 1 Day 1 Week 1 Month Forever
Login with username, password and session length

[Jim Groovester]

Aside from that.

I don't know, you figure it out. Surely you have a list of suspects longer than a single name. Make a convincing case on some other target to mislynch, completely unlike your case on me. Or maybe try bussing one of your buddies. It would give you mad town cred, yo.

I have my suspect list. You are at the top. In fact, you are doing a handstand at the top. But down in second place, maybe halfway up the page, is Superblackcat, and then crawling around on the bottom of the page is makeinu, Caz, and Tiruin. These last three people are in the strict 'odd gut feeling maybe I dunno' range.

Wait, Toaster and Jim are brothers?

Bros, as in, BFFs, pals, buds, friends.

Work with me here. The fact that I'm not executing you as soon as you reveal that you're the Kingmaker should be at least one point in my favour. Keep in mind that you're a prime target for scumkill this night phase as well- we need your suspicions as soon as possible.

You put me on the brink of execution, and you bring me a step back just because I claimed, and you expect me to be grateful?

Get real.

[Cheeetar]

Very well. I shall go back on my word once more.

Execute Jim Groovester. Nothing in his defence has shown him to be anything other than scum. His intense OMGUSing, overly emotional reaction to being target for the execution, incredibly low content scumhunting... the fact that he's claimed the most powerful role in the game at a time in which his death seems inevitable only makes me suspect him more. The real Kingmaker would have to open himself up to nightkills were he to claim to cement your death.

Guards! Apprehend the luthier. Have him strung up by his lute strings. Horace... Horatio? Bring his belongings to this councilroom, that we may see his allegiance.

[Cheeetar]

Execute Jim Groovester

Forgot to bold it- just in case.

[Jim Groovester]

GJ lynching the confirmed townie, dumbass.

I hope Day 2 ends quick with your head in the noose.

[Jim Groovester]

I did nothing besides play my regular game.

Fucking scum kings.

[Cheeetar]

It's good to know that your insults towards me were just trying to exploit my meta. Sorry for taking it personally.

[Vector]

Flavor pending.  Thread is locking to catch up with PMs and the execution flavor.

[Vector]

Guards! Apprehend the luthier. Have him strung up by his lute strings. Horace... Horatio? Bring his belongings to this councilroom, that we may see his allegiance.

Despite the King's bluster, Mark II of the House of Magnus is simply too large to hang.  In fact, the guards sent to apprehend this glowering figure with eyes that glow like candles hang back for a minute, slack-jawed, staring, their halberds nearly slipping from their hands.

Mark II was, after all, not crafted for music like his brother, Mark I.  His heart, though given as it was on occasion to reverie, to long flights of fancy, to glorious imaginings, was not the sort to pour out its sentiments to the tune of a lyre.  What could one expect from a heart of iron?  How could a poet's heart be replicated in cold metal?  So they stare stupefied at this glorious steel giant, an overgrown suit of armor, fists jointed and articulate, face crudely painted, before hurrying to bind it in chains.  They fear its resistance; they feared its strength.

"What do you have to say for yourself?" sneers Ansgar Danielsen.

"DEATH TO HUMANS," says Mark II.  The executioner, still unhooded, axe in his sweating hand, pisses himself.

"How is it talking?" says the serving boy Phaedrus, who has wandered in at the commotion.

"Never mind that," mutters Adolf Alexandersen, captain of the guard.  "How are we going to kill it?"

After much commotion, debate, and pounding of Danielsen's gavel, it is agreed that the guards will somehow drag the iron man to the tallest tower, from which he will be pushed.


This cannot be done until some hours past dusk, as every able-bodied person in the castle takes turns rolling the stubborn Mark II up the stairs.  By the end, Horatio has thrown out his back and limps off with an arm around Phaedrus' shoulders, who is upset he will not see the execution and caterwauls periodic complaints to this effect.  The night breeze feels good on your sweating faces.  Mark II's carapace was, at times, almost too hot to touch, and from time to time he would buzz disconcertingly.

Now he stands atop the crenelated wall, iron boots planted on the edge.

"Shall I tip him?" says Adolf.  Mark II intentionally stepped on his foot once during the rolling, and he is itching for revenge.

"Give me your spear," says old Ansgar.  He hefts the weapon in his hand, lodges the point in the automaton's lower back, and gives a mighty push.  Mark II is tipped.  He falls without windmilling, sinking through the air with a whistle, and falls, and falls, and falls...

And shatters, inconveniently, in the torchlit center of the path leading up to the castle, in a splatter of yellow and black and blue ink, and a strange amber liquid, and grease--which immediately, inconveniently, catches fire and blazes feet into the air.

Moments later Horatio returns, panting, with a bundle of parchment.  Phaedrus follows up behind with a fancy hand mirror, which he forgets on the parapet in favor of gawking at the fire below.

"Sire," quoth Horatio.  "The--iron man's effects."

"It says 'DEATH TO SIGFRED AND DEATH TO THE BITCH QUEEN' in red ink for a great many feet, with each entry signed and dated," Ansgar comments drily.  He throws Mark II's diary onto the fire below, where it burns merrily.  "It seems we have found a traitor."

"Huzzah!" everyone says, with the enthusiasm of the very exhausted.

And, with that, you return to your rooms to rest your aching bodies and prepare for the morrow.



The steward had his own depths and delusions.  He yet pondered, months later, why the Queen would include the scion of Magnus in her court, accept a metal beast onto her council.

How could she not have known?

He sets down his drink, and his ale-fogged brain turns the same question over, as it did on other nights in other warm taverns.  Prince Sigfred had abdicated in order to evade the pact between the ruler of the land and its goddess; and rather than take a bride, he had offered the crown to the cleverest of his suitors.  He understood Sigfred, and knew his fear as his own; they had, after all, grown up together.  The Queen, however, was a cipher, and despite serving five years at her side he still could not scry into her motivations.  He had had a sense, speaking with her, that she peered into his soul and knew him better than he knew himself--and his mysterious Queen, dressed in black, had eyes all over the realm, peering, knowing what he had never quite told anyone.

"A face that sour must have a story," the barkeep says, offering him another tankard.

"No," slurs Horatio into his cups.  "Not I."



It is now night.  Send in your night actions, please--including flavor actions for those who wish to do so.  You have until 7:00 PM (-8GMT) on Friday to send these in.  Please CC myself and Webadict.  At that point I will spend a lump of time--hopefully a mere 24 hours, since I'm feeling better and have a better idea of everyone's character--processing the night flavor.

Spoiler: Mark II of House Magnus (click to show/hide)

INITIALIZING...
MAIN BABBAGE ENGINE TURN ON....
LCL FLUID POWERING INTERNAL AQUEDUCT...
ZEUS MACHINE SMITING...
CANDLE ARRAY LIT...
MAIN FLYWHEEL ACTIVE
SECOND FLYWHEEL ACTIVE
TERTIARY FLYWHEEL ACTIVE
ALL FLYWHEELS ACTIVE
BACKUP BABBAGE SYSTEM COMPUTING....
HUMORS: MISBALANCE TOWARDS YELLOW BILE
TREPANNING MAY BE NECESSARY
INTERNAL OPERATING TEMPERATURE: FOREST FIRE
PIG GREASE LEVEL: 68%
LCL LEVEL: 20%
BLUE INKWELL: 72%
RED INKWELL: 10%
YELLOW INKWELL: 95%
BLACK INKWELL: 90%
PLEASE REPLACE RED INKWELL SOON
YOUR AUTOMATA MAY NOT BE ABLE TO PRODUCE ADEQUATE ILLUMINATIONS

.... PLEASE WAIT WHILE BRAIN IS ACTIVATING....


HELLO, WORLD!

DEATH TO SIGFRED AND THE BITCH QUEEN

BZZT

FATAL EXISTENCE ERROR BITCH QUEEN IS DEAD

CORRECTION DEATH TO SIGFRED AND DEATH TWICE TO THE BITCH QUEEN


YOU ARE THE AUTOMATA MARK II OF THE HOUSE OF MAGNUS

AN IRON MAN FOR THE IRON CROWN

You are a Mafia-Ally.  You win when the Mafia wins.

(1-Shot) Absorb [target]: You kill the target. If the target dies, you gain the target’s power.

[Vector]

Everyone's actions are in--just waiting on some adjudication so I can process the night.  Thanks for your patience, folks.

[Vector]

I did not know until just now that Webadict left the forums, and I have something I need to do early tomorrow.  Also I am moving and doing job applications.  I'm going to look for another co-mod and will write this up as soon as I can.

[Vector]

Just finished moving home, shot Webadict memos.  N1 will be processed by the end of Monday whether we have secured the next co-mod or not.

[Vector]

SIGNIFICANT POSITIVE LIFE EXPERIENCES ARE HAPPENING TO MOD AND SHE WILL GET BACK TO YOU WHEN SHE CAN.  BUT RIGHT NOW I NEED TO CELEBRATE BECAUSE THAT'S REALLY REALLY IMPORTANT

[Vector]

I've received notes asking people if Iron Diadem is continuing.

I've been battling health issues for the past couple months that make it hard to get anything done.  I've been loath to say anything about it, because I feel bad and I keep wondering if it will go away soon.  But for now, I really just can't update in a timely way, because I have other responsibilities that I'm also far behind on due to these issues.  Job-things.  Real-world responsibilities.  There's not as much I can get done in the day when I'm sleeping 10+ hours.

If my health problems get fixed, then this should be done almost immediately.  But for now, I'm sorry.  Please keep waiting patiently.

[Vector]

GET READY MOTHERFUCKERS

Okay, don't get ready, don't hurt yourselves, maybe get yourself a scone and some tea and prepare to wait a while longer, but do it in an anticipatory sort of way.  I can't promise all the PMs will be sent out today since I no longer have the energy to write for 17 hours straight, but I'm hoping for about half.

EDIT: Added theme music :I

[Vector]

All right, here's a dump of all the PMs. This game is closed and will not be restarted. I'm very sorry that I didn't just close it back in March, or sooner.

Here's the google doc with all the role concepts

Spoiler: Mother Death headshot (click to show/hide)

Cat chat
Scumchat

First, the ladies of the town:

Spoiler: Giovanna da Venezia (Tiruin) (click to show/hide)

When you were a young woman painting in the orchard of your parents' little villa, you saw a vision.  You did not know where it came from, or who was speaking--only that it was some great authority calling you away.  A radiant being appeared above the canal and drifted over the water, feet not touching the surface.  This bright figure touched your hair with a finger, which scorched into a curl that never unwound.  And it gestured north, and it said:

FOR ALL THINGS THERE IS A SEASON

You did not understand the meaning of this, but cut your hair short to try to offset what you thought of as a truly hideous curl bouncing across your forehead.  So you had lost your beauty--no matter.  You hadn't felt you had much in the first place, anyhow... and who would cut an "angel lock?"

You said goodbye to your parents and friends, took up your paints, saddled your horse, and traveled northwards.  You did not want to leave... they were family, after all, your precious friends, but some strange ache in your heart told you to keep going.

Along the way you were beset by a man at a ford.  You appealed to his sense of chivalry to allay his attack on you, then cut yourself armor and spears from a nearby willow.  You had always been handy.  And though the sun beat down and sweat rolled down your back, your untrained hands shaking, some sense told you that you would make it through, and your heart was utterly calm.  When it came time at last to meet each other in combat, you threw your spear clean through his visor.  He fell from his horse, dead.  You took up his arms and armor, buried the body, and mounted his steed--a larger one than you had ever been permitted, but as you gained your seat you felt you had come into your destiny.

And you a girl of fifteen!

You headed north and greeted old King Hamlet, and was trained as a guardswoman under Alexander Alexandersen.  You learned to spit and fight with his son Adolf, and before long became a knight errant patrolling the northern border, doing your duty.  The King gave you lands to the north and in that cold country so different from your warm Italy, you rode the line day by day, still painting the land around you.  And so the years turned... and rulers with them... and you with them.  The strange shield you took from the knight at the ford was adorned with a cat, which each king assumed must be your own personal device.  As time went on you grew, to your mortification, hairier--but also more lithe.  Your hearing grew sharper.  You were more easily able to absorb falls and could walk easily through the dark.  As other knights aged into early aches and pains and found themselves struggling to mount their chargers, you were still young.

Your now-frightful ugliness kept you away from court and riding the border through three changes of rule, until one day the queen requested your presence.  You felt out of place in her halls with your casque under your arm and your face freshly shaven.  On the day of your audience she rose from her seat, crowned and shod in iron.  She, too, had her hair cropped short and something of a look of exhaustion in her eyes.  Her Queensguard flanked her, two beautiful women clad in magnificent armor.

"They call you The Ugly Knight," she said in resounding tones, and you blushed.  For a moment you hated her.  A tall manservant whose face had clearly met the wrong end of someone's fist caught your eyes for a moment and smiled apologetically.  "Tales of your exploits have reached my ears.  They tell me that your ugliness is surpassed only by your loyalty."

"If it please you, milady," you murmured, gazing at the floor.

"As no good deed goes unpunished," she said, "You are to come here and serve as member of my council."

You forget yourself.

"Milady, I ride a fifty-mile stretch every week and send fear to the hearts of Fortinbras' patrols.  Just two months ago I routed an advance boat of his scouts, and it is not infrequently that I dispatch roving brigands--"

"For all things there is a season," she says mildly.  "You know the northern border better than any other.  Now tell me, knight, what is your name?"

"Giovanna da Venezia," you told her, and were hers.

You are Town.  You win when all anti-Town factions are dead. (Mafia, Cult, SK, Lyncher, Assassin and respective Allies and Brothers)

(Auto) Loyal Subject: You are a faithful subject of the king and cannot be changed tuna-other.
(Auto) Feline Friends: You are Masons with Superblackcat.
(Night) Cat Call [target]: Mew tell the target you’re Town.


oh my god i'm so sorry your role is totally weird

Everyone knows Fortinbras.

Asking what they know of them gives you queer looks--you are, after all, Giovanna da Venezia, the legendary knight of the border.  They assume that you would know more about him than anyone--but killing his servants in the name of your Queen is not the most personable exercise.  You know his colors and armaments, his pennants, and pieces here and there of his language.  You know that his men are tenacious and seem almost bored.  You knew that they preferred death to yielding.

Fortinbras was always moving in the North.  Fortinbras was the second-to-last in a long line of kings named Fortinbras.  There was always a Fortinbras, and he was always lapping at the border.

You had been so relieved when Sigfred abandoned the throne.  He had barely had the strength to hold together the castle's inhabitants, let alone reign over an entire kingdom.  You had thought it would be the end of everything... the end of shortages, the end of Fortinbras at the border.  Though you still did not know why he had left, you were glad that he had done so.  And the Queen who took his place, though at first you had not held a high opinion of her, grew into a capable ruler.  Her own dress was simple, but her court was magnificent; money flowed in to her castle, and out again in equal quantities; and she was known, if never for gentleness, for her esteemed generosity.

You had hoped for a treaty, with King Fortinbras of the Border.

But she had died, and died young--young enough that her own parents oversaw her funeral.  Younger than you.  Why?

You know that the servants usually know more than the masters, so you find the young man who had served you at your midnight table, now idly gnawing on an apple in the scullery.

"Boy!" you say.  He startles, but does not drop his fruit.

"Milady of the border."

"What is your name?"

"I?  Well... Phaedrus."

He looks at you with open curiosity, which you return out of principle.  The youth is small and comely, with curling, red-gold hair that glows in the candlelight.  His clothing, while well-made, is ill-kempt and stained, with a growing rent in the knee of his white hose.

"What can you tell me of King Fortinbras, Phaedrus?"

"You have the makings of a beard, milady of the border," says Phaedrus, who seems to have not noticed your question.

You say nothing.  You feel the color rising in your face, if only behind your beardy shadow.

"As do I, milady of the border!" says Phaedrus with a widening smile.  You are not sure if he has all his wits, but you have no desire to question him further that night.  You bid him good eve and retire to your chambers.

It is now Day One.  Congratulations!  You are alive.

Spoiler: Maren Jørgensdatter (Toaster) (click to show/hide)

The call to action came when you were gazing out to the "wild and watery sea."  Indeed, you remember it as though it could be yesterday--a letter brought to you by a handsome youth with beautiful dark eyes like polished wood.  You smiled at him gently, wanting to allay any discomfort he felt in being in your presence.  It could be so difficult for the peasants, you knew.  But he did not return your generous gesture.

"Are you sad?" you asked him.

He was silent.

"When I am sad, I look out at my father's ships on the wave," you tell him gallantly, "or I write poems.  There is no situation which cannot be improved by these two stratagems."

"A letter, milady," he said.  You could see that one of his front teeth was rotting clean out in his mouth, the poor soul.  More time gazing to the sea and educating himself, and less time sneaking your sweets, then.  You did not try to make him speak further, but rather accepted the missive.  It was sealed with the Queen's seal and written in the Queen's hand.  An audience--a position--a seat on the Queen's Council as "the eminent daughter of Denmark's greatest merchant house, with clear insight into its financial interests."  A sting of shame.

Why did she say nothing of your dedication to helping the poor and unfortunate?

You waved your servant away, pondering.  Perhaps she did not know of your dedication to revolution--a turn of power, with a leader sympathetic to the peasant cause at the top.  You had an image of yourself, glorious, gleaming, clothed in ermine, crowned in gold, handing down decrees... all assembled gazed upon the jewels adorning the swell of your breast with amazement, the scepter of a glowing icon bedecked in power.  They called you Maren the Merciful and kissed and bathed your feet in gratitude.  You took the more handsome plaintiffs to bed as an award, where they were of course pleased to perform at your pleasure...

That night you idly dressed for bed and pinned up your long hair.  The golden pins alone were heavy, and you knew that a crown would be even heavier.  It wasn't that you put stock in your girlish fantasies.  You knew you were not suited to rule; a country is not a merchant house, and justice cannot be weighed in silver.  But you knew, also, that far too many Danish nobles feasted every night without any thought to the miserable poor; and that you could do this much.  You could, at least, think of them.

You packed your carriage and a dashing plumed hat, and a rapier you had never had cause to use, and the latest works of Pierre Gringoire, and in this way you set off to the capital armed to the teeth for glorious revolution, humming:

'Can you hear the people sing?'


You are Town.  You win when all anti-Town factions are dead. (Mafia, Cult, SK, Lyncher, Assassin and respective Allies and Brothers)

(Night) Gift [target]: Give the target a shipment. If the target becomes King, they cannot lynch you.
(Day) Loan [target]: Loan the target one of these abilities. After one Night, they lose the ability, and you get a one-shot version of it. {Watch, Inspect, Redirect}

You draw the young man aside when he is clearing the trenchers, late that evening.  He is well-dressed but unkempt, with a large rent in the knee of his white hose.  You have been paying attention to him for a while, sneaking him sweets and paying him compliments, but have never sought his opinion.  As he enters the kitchen, he begins to pick meat from your leavings.

"Phaedrus!" says a man's voice.  "What is to be done with you?"

"Hm?" says Phaedrus.

"Eat what you like, but wait until you are out of sight of the nobility.  Look there, your hose is torn."

Phaedrus says nothing, though you can hear him chewing.  You wait for a moment, hoping for talk of revolution, or at least an unvarnished opinion on something other than Phaedrus' manners, but as none is forthcoming you make your entrance.

In the kitchen, two servants.  The younger perches on a stool, picking through the remains of what was once a quail.  The older stands to the side, rubbing his temples.  His black hair is whitening there, and one of his cheekbones shows the sign of having been shattered and poorly healed long ago.  You immediately pity him, and wonder what he must have done to merit such a blow.  It is not right of you to fear the underclass, though you often do anyway.

He draws to attention at your entrance and says, formally: "Milady Maren Jørgensdatter."

You have heard of this man, identifiable by his broken face and stiff temperament, but never bothered to meet him--after all, the head of the servants is neither powerful enough to be of interest, nor downtrodden enough to necessitate your attention--and so you greet him, for the first time, in kind: "Milord Horatio Hall."

The mortified silence that seeps out of him is enough for you to want to make a hasty retreat.  Of course he would rankle at being addressed as a lord.  Of course he would detest the reminder of his low birth.  Did he think you were funning at his expense?

But you persist for a moment:

"Mil--Ph--You two, have you seen or heard anything interesting lately?"

"The stars are bright tonight," Phaedrus offers.

You put a silk handkerchief in his greasy hand for his trouble, and flee.  Behind you, you hear him say: "What a nice lady that is.  She likes me, you know."

"Finish your supper, Phaedrus."


That evening you pen a masterpiece:

The peasants' love is always true,
When skies are gray black or skies are blue.
I leave off thought of what I knew
And worries fade into a dew my stew.



It is now Day One.  Congratulations!  You are alive.

On the Loan ability, can I loan the same ability more than once?  Also, I assume the Gift protection only lasts for one day?  Is it publicly announced if I gift the right person? (As in "[Target] is King!  Toaster cannot be lynched!")

Regardless, let's Loan Jim G an Inspect.

From Webadict: Assuming the item is returned, yes because it fits the flavor nicely. Also, I forgot what his Gift ability does. But, no, it doesn't happen publicly, but the King is informed.

I am going to quickly add here that it's a really good thing that the inspect is a night action.  Voop, voop.

You give the giant mechanical man your most beautiful hand mirror, with the lilies on the back.

He does not seem appreciative, but that's the risk of lending things to the scions of noble houses, you guess!

Spoiler: Gwenhwyfar (Persus13) (click to show/hide)

She found you in the forest clutching a shield.

"Who are you?" she said.  She carried a falcon on her gloved fist and from far away in the forest you could hear the hounds baying.  It was the first word you--the first

                                      the wild hunt?

"they call her the madwoman of the lake grove," said the woman besi

"There is a strange mark on her shoulder," she said.

                    not explain the dream of the wheel


She took you home with her, this strange ill-dressed woman they called their queen.  The uncivilized Danish people dressed your wounds and gave you spiced wine to drink, and commented on your noble bearing.  Surely, they said, you could not be just any peasant struck by insanity.  Surely, they said, you were someone greater.  And slowly your strength recovered, your mind if not your memory, and no matter how they questioned who you were or your origins you did not remember them.

Her physicians examined your legs and determined you had taken a great fall, and said from the clarity in your eyes, your comfort with rich surroundings, that surely you had been a woman of great station.  Perhaps the handmaid to some other queen in some other country, or a local lord's daughter.  Her ladies in waiting cooed over your burnished red hair and dressed it with ribbons, and though you were a mere woman with no name or station servants of the local lords came to sit at your feet and have their troubles heard.

The Queen requested your presence one evening.

"You have become a person of reputation here," she said.  "Perhaps in your old life you were familiar with proceedings of state."

You said nothing.

"There is a myth here of an old queen of the land, buried once but not forever," she said.  "A shieldmaiden whose stories we still recount today.  Though she was brought from the Celtic Isles to serve as wife to a great king, soon she came to rule in his stead with wisdom and dignity--and with a famous blade unified the land and made it whole.

"And it is said, furthermore, that this queen would return in a time of great need," she said.

"For this reason I dub thee Gwenhwyfar, in memory of the queen once and future who sleeps in wait under the mountain.  You shall serve on my council and advise me as to what the populace tells you--and perhaps, in time, you shall grow worthy of your namesake."

And still you were silent, but at the edge of your mind stirred what might have been the wakings of memory...


You are Town.  You win when all anti-Town factions are dead. (Mafia, Cult, SK, Lyncher, Assassin and respective Allies and Brothers)

(1-Shot) The 13th Warrior: Creates a dummy player that is controlled by you. Dummy players copy your actions. If you are lynched or killed while the dummy player is alive, they are killed instead of you. You may give this dummy player to another player.
(1-Shot, Day) Repress [target]: The target cannot be lynched today.

You fall asleep that night and have the dream again.

You are sitting on a throne.  The throne is attached to a vast wheel, which hangs over a fiery pit.

Beside you--the dead Queen.  And beside you--her Council.

The wheel turns and you watch as the Queen grows from a young woman, shy and stuttering--is crowned--is Queen.  She rides in her throne to the wheel's peak, where the warm sun bathes her and you beside her, and you survey the vast green lands of Denmark before you--all so far as to seem so small as to fit in the palm of your hand.

And the wheel turns, and you watch as the Queen falls from her chair, and into the fire.

And the wheel turns, and ere long it is your turn to take a fall--

From a tower.

You jump, and wake up a moment later, drenched in sweat, to the sound of the servants making your morning fire.

It is now Day One.  Congratulations!  You are alive.

Spoiler: Cille Edithsdatter (Imp) (click to show/hide)

You are Cille Edithsdatter, bastard daughter of Edith, fatherless child.  You were raised by your mother and the rest of the castle's servants, and like the Queen who came into power not so long ago, you cannot walk well.  Unlike her, however, you were not cursed by a lover, nor romantically offered a kingdom by a prince ill-fit to rule.  You were blighted from the womb, and so they whispered that Mother Death had touched you before you had even been born, twisted your feet and left you unable to walk--and, crueller yet, partially blind.

And because so many were cruel for so many youthful years, you grew accustomed to isolation, to their scorn, and chose--instead of becoming bitter--to begin becoming bold and brave.  It was hard, but you thought:

"With so many things I cannot do, at least I can do this."

So you grew accustomed as a little girl to traveling through the castle on your crutches, offering smiles to all who passed and being useful as you could (though it seemed that everyone tried to ignore you), and it was perhaps this attempt at friendliness that saved your life--Queen Gertrude, then already wife to Claudius, saw far ahead and sent you to a convent.

"She is as blind and lame as an old monk," said the sisters.  "We can take her, but what can be done with the mite?"

In your blurred little world you could not be distracted by shapes, but the entire universe run together looked, at the middle distance, like one great stained glass window.  You were given simple tasks--sweeping walks, washing dishes, begging for alms, crushing stones and beetles to make ink.  You watched, fascinated, as the sisters bent their heads in the scriptorium and with quills and miniscule brushes drew the world in all its brightness.  You prepared their vellum.  You looked at the pane that was the sky and in your restful moments searched for other things that might produce that color, which were not so difficult to find as you were, after all, traveling slowly and had a good deal of time to make your observations.  And before too long they noted how the quality of their inks and parchments had improved, and your talents were in demand.  You occupied your own prize place in the convent and had apprentices who you taught to travel slowly and look with a careful eye.

So you spent your childhood making glowing pigments and paints that illuminated every text for which they served as illustration.

Then the Queen, shod in iron, ascended to the throne of Denmark, and you knew you had to see her.  You prepared a coat of arms for yourself, so you would look like someone's daughter, and traveled to her castle bearing an assortment of inks and parchments as a coronation gift.  Truth be told, you had expected someone else from the stories that made way to your convent--a giantess facing down Death, a knight with a flashing blade, or some sort of half-demon warlord with steel talons.

Instead a woman with hair recently shorn short greeted you, almost shyly.  She offered you spiced wine and, stutteringly, a position in her own scriptorium.  In the interim you furnished her with rich materials.  She ordered books of hours made and furnished to the nobles of the land, and illuminated texts for great agreements between herself and the neighboring countries.  You soon investigated the manufacture of cloth dyes as well--crimson kermes, Tyrian purple, blue woad, so that her court was richly dressed, her tapestries brighter and bolder in their expression.  In this way you cemented her image.  It saddened you that she still dressed so plainly, but beside her radiant retainers her dark shadow was even more distinctive.

When it came time to form her council, therefore, it surprised but did not shock you that she requested your presence.  You had, after all, had her ear for many years.

"The Queen is sympathetic only out of her own prejudice," your detractors whispered when the Queen was not listening, and at long last you, perhaps somewhat foolishly, asked her:

"Why should one such as I be fit to advise you?"

"You know how to make much of very little, which is enough," said the Queen, "but furthermore, I find myself sometimes lonely."

You are Town.  You win when all anti-Town factions are dead. (Mafia, Cult, SK, Lyncher, Assassin and respective Allies and Brothers)

(Night) Unshakeable [target]: Target cannot be affected by blocks, redirects, or randomizations.
(1-Shot) True Potential [target]: Grants the target their Limit Break.

You watch, and watch, and watch.

In the corner of your eye, from time to time, you see a cloud.  Are your eyes worsening?  You do not know, and even with the aide of your loupe you cannot see anything much.  The official documents piled on the table are still difficult for you, and often you need to sound the words out to decipher their meanings.  Similarly, it is hard when you cannot see the faces of the other men and women gathered at the table as anything other than smears of cream, peach, and brown.  One wears an enormous headpiece--a hat?  Though most are colorfully dressed--indeed, you recognize your dyes--one wears robes in black, and the gleaming studs on the chest of another must be armor.

Truth be told, everyone is frightened.

Before you, the appetizing smell of almonds with fish and onion distracts you, and you hurry to swallow it down.  Then it's candied chestnuts, and then a piece of quail.

You didn't intend to spend the entire evening eating, but you know the value of good food.  And, truth be told, that strange, soft gray cloud frightened you at the same time as it seemed heartlessly familiar.  The color was unlike anything you had seen in nature, nor in artifice.  It was not like an eggshell, nor the cooking interior, smoother than any shade found in the sky and not so variable as that found in stone, or pelt, or venerable human hair.

So you ask yourself--tried not to ask yourself, between mouthfuls of fruit and meat--whether you are going blind.

You are almost indifferent to it.  What is one more blow?  You are almost overblown by it.  What would you do without this little?

You secured your place in the Queen's court by long efforts with black.  You were more patient with your indigo and woad, more fastidious in the mixture and application of your mordants than any other dyer.  You still remember the day when she raised a great sheet of cloth and said:

"It's like the night. . . or as though I were blind."

It is now Day One.  Congratulations!  You are alive.

Spoiler: Kisa Albertsdatter (SuperBlackCat) (click to show/hide)

There is a word and that word is as follows:

Live.

This is the word you plant in the skull of each of your creations, pouring breath into clay and letting them play on the floor of your chamber.  They open their mouths to mew soundlessly, gambol, smear their claws on the floor, and then fall at last, dry and lifeless.

And there's a word for you, too:

Thief.

And a word for the Queen who invited you to her council as a so-called hedgewitch, though you don't know what that is yet.

Could she possibly be circumscribed in a word like "dead?"


You are Town.  You win when all anti-Town factions are dead. (Mafia, Cult, SK, Lyncher, Assassin and respective Allies and Brothers)

(Auto) Feline Friends: You are masons with Tiruin.
(Night) Gather Materials [target]: You rob the target of greatly needed components, blocking them during the Night. You make yourself a fancy device.

It is night and the rain beats down.  There is no word for wandering at night while the rain beats down.  You walk down the dirt path past the fields to the outlying town, where the peasants are asleep but the tavern is lively.

Rye.  Oats.  Wheat.

You walk through the orchards out past the pastures and through grounds where last year there was a fair, and through mud where the ground is churned.

Apples.  Pears.  Walnuts.

There is a word for this:

Pastoral.

The Queen called you a hedgewitch, which you accepted in order to circumscribe the whole of your existence.  Your desire was to accept her word.  You accepted her word that breathed life in you.

You stop at the edge of town near the midwife's shack and first take earth in your hands.  The rough earth falls away, and you pull from the earth again and again until your hands hold clay.  You add herbs to the clay.  You make a bowl from the clay that was the earth and in the clay you put a scrap of paper on which you have written your word:

Live.

And you close the bowl into a hollow ball in which resides the scrap of paper holding your word, and you drop it from a height that will let it land on its feet.  On its way down it grows ears and back and paws and half a tail.  And the living clay holding your word which was the earth gambols for half a step before it is once again paper and ink and earth only.

You are tired and return to the castle.  You cannot do more until you find more components.


It is now Day One.  Congratulations!  You are alive.